Apaches Don't Need Guns

What about our stories? Well, we call this Apache's Don't Need Guns. It began one evening when we were camped near Fort Los Alamos, Arizona. California and I had delivered a herd of bees to the San Carlos in the in-reservation, and were headed back to the bar 20.

That night after dinner, we were washing our tinware with sand. I noticed that California was more on edge than usual. Hoppy, I don't like it. I feel plum crawly thinking about that in a gold or knees, musculia or steak in the war.

I'm not exactly happy to have a patches of clothes, but the fortunately 20 miles away, and it's nearly dark. A patches of tape to fight in the dark. Sure, but just the same, the hair in the back of the neck feels like it's gonna stand out.

Well, there, I'm done. You may or plate now put him away. California, quiet. Wait, the engine. I'll get my long gun. Douse the fire! No, wait! This woman and I come into order. There he is.

Puppy. Is he broke? Come on in, we'll set. Ooh! One of these backs. Get out beyond the firelight and see if he was followed. Right. Didn't penetrate very deep. Well, no wonder. Two wrappings of buffalo hide.

Must be an Indian fighter or scout. There are no trying out here, Puppy. He must have lost him in the dark. Is he gonna catch him? No, if I can get this bar out of him.

Slice one of those flat cactus pads and toss them to me. Sure, I'm standing in the messer. I'll just sterilize my knife and the flames. Ah, there. Here's the cactus pad. Good. Stay out there and keep your eyes peeled.